


Wild

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AmeriHawk, Bondage, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, D/s, Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Stucky - Freeform, ameriwinterhawk - Freeform, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22078981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: The world had changed a hell of a lot in seventy years, but Bucky still wanted Steve to tell him what to do. Especially now that Clint was involved.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 49
Kudos: 224





	Wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/gifts).



> For Flowerparrish, who is just, out of this world awesome. You wanted some ameriwinterhawk bondage and uh, it was my extreme pleasure to provide.
> 
> As always, so much thanks to Ro for beta reading.

It was a thing now, apparently.

To be fair, a lot of… things were things now. But this? This was a thing Bucky had never known he could even begin to want.

And now he could.

Steve had always known, even when they didn’t have words for it. Hell, Steve had always been  _ part  _ of it.

Except for those years when he hadn’t been.

Basic had been heaven for Bucky, really, except for the part where he didn’t have Steve curled around him at night. But otherwise? Dawn to dusk, he was given orders and tasks, punished when he failed, praised when he managed to impress. 

Even being a sergeant, for all that it was a position of some authority, settled some ache in Bucky’s bones. He had men to take care of, to look after, and orders to follow and a captain to please. It was almost like back home, looking after his mother and sisters, going home at night to Steve and gratefully submitting to whatever Steve wanted, whatever would make Steve smile. 

Probably, it was why Zola fucked him up so thoroughly. Erskine had told Steve, the serum amplified what was already there. 

But seventy years later, despite everything - because of everything? - Bucky still wanted nothing more than to sink to his knees and do whatever Steve told him to.

Submissive. They had words for it now. Sub. Service submission. 

There was more, of course, nuance that Bucky took the time to research because HYDRA might have stripped Bucky down to his foundations and he might be rebuilding himself into a man his mother never would have recognized, but even with all of that, Bucky’s thirst for knowledge remained unchanged.

Curiosity killed the cat, Steve used to tease.

But satisfaction brought him back, was always Bucky’s rejoinder.

So there was a name for him now, what he was, what he  _ wanted _ . And Steve, as ever, gave Bucky what he needed.

It wasn’t the same - how could it be? They weren’t and the world wasn’t and they sure as hell didn’t want to go back in time, in any case. 

But it was more than that, the changes around them and between them.

_ They  _ were more than they had been before.

Before, it had been Steve and Bucky against the world. Bucky at Steve’s heel, ever his to command, always desperate to worship.

Now, though, now there was Clint.

Stark had been the one to point it out, during one pre-dawn impromptu physics lesson when he and Bucky had been fueled by caffeine and nightmares and a desperation to create more than destruction. 

Take all the things that made up Steve and all the things that made up Bucky, put them in a blender, and you got Clint.

Which wasn’t to say he wasn’t his own man, wasn’t unique and powerful and  _ individual _ . But there was something to Tony’s words, all the same.

Clint was a puzzle, and then he was a puzzle piece, slotting so neatly into place it was impossible for Bucky to feel the seams between them.

Bucky thrived on order, on commands and punishment and praise. Steve took control as he never could before, possessive and fierce and implacable. Clint fought tooth and nail, often literally, until he was empty and willing to be filled. 

Steve liked the challenge. Bucky liked pleasing Steve. Clint liked belonging.

-o-

He might not put pencil to paper as much as he had all those years ago, but Steve was still an artist.

“Once more around his left wrist,” Steve instructed, voice sending a shiver down Bucky’s spine - just that right edge of command, of  _ I can do this all day _ , to make Bucky desperate for more instruction.

So, naturally, Bucky obeyed.

The yarn was smooth between his fingers, soft and fragile, yellow like butter. Gentle. 

“Not too tight,” Steve reminded Bucky, unnecessarily. 

But the words were apparently for Clint, who sucked in a breath and screwed his eyes shut tight as Bucky wrapped the yarn around his left wrist once more.

Clint’s body was flushed, from his freckled cheeks to his ridiculous abs to his trembling thighs. He was bare, of course, because  _ strip  _ was one of the few commands Steve could give him that had Clint complying instead of sassing him back.

Bucky spread his fingers against the smooth underside of Clint’s forearm, felt the way his pulse jumped, the way Clint swayed into him at the contact.

“Good,” Steve said, words washing over Bucky, bright and soft as the yellow yarn that now bound Clint’s wrists together in front of him.

The tail of yarn dangled down, not quite long enough for Bucky to loop it back around and secure, but Steve didn’t comment so it must not go against his sense of aesthetics. Or whatever was guiding him,  _ them _ , in this scene.

Steve was across the room, hair mussed and naked save for the cotton sleep pants he had worn to bed that night. A bed he had woken up alone in less than an hour ago, several hours after midnight, long after everyone else in the tower - even Tony - had succumbed to sleep. 

Everyone except for Clint and Bucky.

Another nightmare, this time Clint’s, had taken them from Steve’s side and to the gym for nearly two hours of sparring before Steve came to fetch them, lips thinned, brow furrowed and eyes dark.

They followed him back to the room, Steve stopping either of them before they could move to the bathroom and shower, and for a moment Bucky had an unsettling flashback to being a child, called into the principal’s office because he and Steve had gotten into a fight with a gang of older boys. Again.

The flashback was obliterated when Steve ordered them to strip, of course, and even Clint was without a snarky comeback for a moment as he and Bucky almost tripped over themselves to comply.

It wouldn’t be the first time Steve bent the pair of them over, wouldn’t be the last time he left his handprint on their bare asses so that even Bucky would feel it the next day. And judging from Clint’s bright eyes, the lopsided curve of his lips, it was even what  _ he  _ wanted.

But Steve just tossed Bucky a length of coiled yellow yarn, the kind of thing you made into a blanket for a baby, the kind of thing Bucky remembered tucking around Becca when she was so small that her whole delicate hand clenched around his pinky when she gurgled a laugh at him.

“Hands together in front of you, Clint,” Steve had said, taking his seat on the edge of the bed while Bucky and Clint stared at him in confusion. 

“When did we start doing craft projects in bed?” Clint had groused, still off enough - either from the nightmare or the yarn or both - that he held his hands out as instructed.

Steve had arched an eyebrow, but hadn’t risen to the bait. He never did, unless it suited his own purposes.

“Tie his hands together, not too tight,” Steve had instructed Bucky.

“Oh, sure, because  _ this  _ is going to hold me when I got those mag cuffs off without breaking a sweat?” Clint had sneered. He and Bucky hadn’t sparred enough for his fear and anger to have been exhausted, and he was lashing out now in a predictable pattern.

He only let Bucky twist the yarn around both hands twice, in loose figure eights that wouldn’t secure anything, let alone Clint’s talented hands.

And then Clint had hip-checked Bucky away and gave a swift, savage tug, forcing his hands apart and tearing through the fragile yarn as if it were tissue paper.

“See?” Clint had laughed, dark and bitter, like the bile that he had earlier been fighting down when Bucky found him over the sink, face streaked with tears and chest heaving as he fought to remember what was real.

“Again,” Steve had said to Bucky, appearing to be completely unmoved by Clint’s display. 

Clint had growled, had actually taken a step away from Bucky instead of letting him get close again.

“Clint.” Steve hadn’t sounded commanding then, hadn’t been the asshole Bucky had followed into back alley fights or who smirked when Bucky dropped to his knees and begged for punishment. In that moment, he had been the man who made Bucky’s heart stutter for an entirely different reason, the man who was golden and righteous and so very, very far from the filthy abyss Bucky had struggled free from. 

“Clint, I know you can do this.”

Clint hadn’t looked at him, but he sure as hell hadn’t been unaffected. His jaw had clenched, his throat had worked, and his eyes had closed with a flutter of dark lashes against his cheeks that meant surrender. It was the kind of thing that usually took sweat and tears to accomplish. The kind of thing that Steve used Bucky to draw from Clint over the course of hours.

“Buck,” Steve had nodded at him, had looked so patient sitting there while Bucky and Clint stood before him.

And now they were here, still standing before him, Clint’s hands now wrapped together with the flimsiest of restraints, Bucky holding onto him as if- as if Clint might run.

It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.

Even a year into this, this relationship of theirs, Clint was still prone to running - to leaving their room, the Tower, the city, the country twice - when he couldn’t put into words or actions what he was afraid of. Steve invariably went after him, because whatever nightmares Bucky or Clint had and couldn’t talk about, no one had to ask what Steve’s recurring nightmare was - his cries of  _ Bucky, hang on  _ were impossible to misunderstand. 

So Steve always brought Clint back, and Bucky tried to help Clint climb out of his own filthy abyss, because they both knew - knew too much, knew things they would die rather than have Steve  _ know _ . 

And somehow, somehow here they still were - broken, held together by the sheer force of Steve’s will and, apparently, a bit of string.

Clint must have been thinking something similar to Bucky, because his lips quirked up and he shared a look with him - amusement for just the two of them. Bucky curled his fingers tighter around Clint’s forearm, felt his own lips lift in agreement. 

“On your knees, Buck,” Steve instructed, words swift and just as swiftly followed.

Clint made a noise when he looked down at Bucky, but they were both distracted when Steve rose from the bed and moved to stand behind Clint.

Steve’s hands had always been large, but for all their size, there was an elegance to them, and the way they fitted around Clint’s hips made Bucky’s breath catch. There was so much strength in Steve, in his body, his will. But he cradled Clint, as soft and delicate and  _ deliberate  _ as the butter yellow yarn.

“Gorgeous, isn’t he, Buck?” Steve asked against the sensitive skin of Clint’s neck.

Clint’s bound hands fluttered, halfway between reaching for Steve and reaching for Bucky.

“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, word a rasp of emotion so much stronger than lust.

Clint whimpered, then, and he was so rarely vocal unless it was to taunt. Even Steve was smiling now.

“Show him, Buck,” Steve ordered.

And, well, Bucky had always enjoyed following Steve’s orders.

-o-

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so it wasn't SMUTTY but... in my defense, that's because I'm saving smutty bondage times for a certain sex worker Clint fic. Ahem.


End file.
